


Absolutely Brilliant

by AsteraceaeBlue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsteraceaeBlue/pseuds/AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The subtle changes he had seen in her made sense in a heartbeat – the sheen in her hair, the tiredness, and thank God he had not mentioned her weight gain this time around."<br/>Just a short story tag to 'Paragon'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was something fundamentally boring about the slides under the microscope. The cross sections of poisonous foliage were not keeping his attention. The feeling had been more and more common recently, thought it settled a little more heavily on this particular night. Suddenly the bright fluorescent glow in the kitchen was too sterile, the darkness of the rest of the flat too unwelcome.

Flipping the scope off, Sherlock abandoned his study and made his way to the bedroom. Slowly opening the door, he lingered in the doorway for a few moments to adjust to the darkness, the only light coming from the lamps outside. He could just make out the form lying in the bed, the sound of light breathing the only noise in the room.

Molly looked entirely peaceful and for that he was glad. The first trimester of her pregnancy had not been kind to her: falling asleep in the lab, a complete aversion to nearly every food that existed, and nights that were interrupted by frequent runs to the loo to be sick. Sherlock had never really understood that "morning sickness" was a loose title until then.

Now six months along, life had improved greatly.

He watched her, lying propped against a long body pillow, one hand tucked under her head and the other resting protectively against her growing belly. Her hair fanned out behind her and across her shoulder, luxurious with the hormones of her new body. On that bit, she had been entirely correct – her hair and skin made her look like a goddess just a few short weeks into the pregnancy.

It was the first thing he noticed changing about her before either of them even knew. He still remembered coming home from closing a case to find her sitting on the edge of the sofa, her hands steepled over her face and her eyes wide, staring at the coffee table. The way she nearly jumped a meter when she heard him come in, the look of terror and joy on her face, sent him immediately to the wrong conclusion.

"You haven't agreed to another investigation," he had said, half questioning, half demanding.

She'd looked at him as though he were speaking in tongues.

"What?"

"You said you were done with all of that. It's been two years, what could they possibly need you for?" he'd said heatedly, the memories and emotions of all that had happened when he'd discovered she had been an MI5 agent surging back into his mind. "Mycroft can bugger himself if he thinks for one second - "

Her response to his tirade had been to grab something from the coffee table and shove it at him. He'd looked down at the white stick in her hand and drawn a complete blank. The best thing he could summon from his mind was that it looked like a pH test. His confusion had obviously shown. Her eyes shone a bit as she looked up at him.

"It's a pregnancy test, Sherlock," she'd said quietly.

He'd gone rigid, his eyes slowly lowering to the stick. His mind had gone empty and entirely full all at once, thoughts racing as it gradually sunk in. Though spectacularly ignorant on a few things in life, the potential consequences of being in a sexually active relationship with Molly was not one of them. He knew what could happen.

Had happened.

"A-and… those two lines would be…"

"Positive," she'd finished for him.

If he'd had to do it over again, his reaction would have been greatly altered. His inability to be sensitive to feelings and proper social proceedings had never failed him so enormously.

He had backed away from her. Not far, but it was enough. Hadn't said a word.

Her face fell and hardened immediately and he knew he had ruined it.

"God, no, Molly, I'm sorry," he had sputtered, reaching out. "I'm so sorry. That – _that_ – was knee-jerk, I'm sorry."

She'd stared at him, aghast, skirting his hand and making for the middle of the room as he followed her.

" _Knee-jerk_?" she had cried, eyes flashing. "Your _knee-jerk_ reaction to finding out I am carrying your child is to back away in horror?"

"No, _no_ , not horror," he had said defensively. "Be reasonable, Molly, that was a shock to the system."

She'd snorted in disbelief, no doubt thinking her side of the situation trumped his. Rightfully so.

"You gave the impression you were open to this – wanted it, even! I do recall your exact words to be that our offspring would be absolutely brilliant," she huffed.

"I don't deny that - "

"I knew you weren't entirely keen on filling the flat with basinets and nappies, but for fuck's sake, Sherlock, you could at least pretend that you care until you actually do," she'd snapped, grabbing the throw pillow from his chair and chucking it at him.

His hands had flown up to block the assault, holding the pillow with more than a little intention to use it to deflect any further airborne attacks. Peering over the top of it, he'd seen Molly leaning against his chair, arms crossed tightly across her chest and her eyes locked on the floor.

So very, very not good.

Letting the pillow drop, he had made his way carefully over to the woman with whom he had been sharing his life for the last two years. Not waiting to see if she would let him, he had wrapped his arms around her and tucked her under his chin, fitting to him like a glove, as she always did.

"There won't be any pretending to care, Molly," he'd said softly. "I do care. It's unexpected – but I am happy."

"Don't lie, you're terrified."

"So are you."

She had leaned back, looking up at him with eyes that held a dozen questions and uncertainties. The subtle changes he had seen in her made sense in a heartbeat – the sheen in her hair, the tiredness, and thank _God_ he had not mentioned her weight gain this time around.

"Are you ready for this?" she'd asked timidly.

The thought of a tiny life dependent on him made him momentarily lightheaded. For one terrible second he had considered that he was not, in fact, ready. He was selfish, driven, and lived a potentially dangerous life. It was one thing to bring Molly, a grown woman with a strong sense of self, into all of that. It was quite another to bring a child into it. His own father had been the opposite of a good role model for fatherhood and he'd had no desire to try to amend that with his own turn at being a parent. But then his mind offered up the image of a delicate baby wrapped in a white blanket with Molly's brown eyes and his dark hair and something clenched around his heart. The thought of Molly holding that baby was enough to encourage the half grin onto his face.

"With you… yes."

He'd spent the next four months making up for that blunder. Some days were more successful than others.

An idea popped into his mind as he stood in the doorway, watching her sleep. Quiet as he could, Sherlock padded over to the small bookshelf on the other side of the room and knelt down, scanning the titles. Finding what he sought, he slid the hardbound off the shelf and walked back to the bed.

Sliding gently into bed, he turned onto his stomach and opened the book once he had positioned himself at eye level with her belly. He could smell the lingering scent of her soap from her evening bath, filling his senses with orange and cinnamon. Setting his phone to a light app, he began reading.

"I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics; and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family…"

The slow crinkle of the pages as he turned them and the words from his mouth joined with Molly's even breathing to create a comforting melody that was far more engaging than cross sections of stems at the moment. He made it through the first twenty pages before Molly stirred, a light noise of wakefulness coming from her throat. Her eyes slipped open and she looked down at him, confusion in her face.

"What're you doing?" she asked sleepily, her hand smoothing over her stomach and reaching out to run through his hair.

"Reading to her," he said simply.

Molly glanced down at the book and squinted. Her mouth turned up in an amused smile.

"She's not going to be _exactly_ like me, you know," she said, ruffling his hair before returning her hand to her belly.

"Your work hardly falls into the realm of reanimation."

"No, but I do smuggle body parts to you… on second thought, that would make you Dr. Frankenstein, not me."

"Either way, it can't hurt her to know a great work. I intend for her to know many."

"No, I 'spose it can't," Molly murmured, smiling.

The effect of her smile on her glowing face was instantaneous. The sight of her overwhelmed him and he let go of the book, placing his hand atop hers and bringing his forehead to rest against the swell of her stomach. He could feel the little flutters of movement beneath her skin, their voices and hands inspiring activity in her womb. Two lives he had never intended to let into his world, to place in importance before his own, and yet he knew he would give up everything for them.

"Go back to sleep, Molly… you need it."

"In a little while," she whispered.

When he looked up again, her eyes were closed, though she was clearly still awake. He began reading once more and she hummed contentedly, threading her fingers with his.


	2. Chapter 2

London had been suffering from an August warm spell and days of clouds without the reprieve of rain on the day Molly gave birth. For two full days she had been pacing – well, shuffling – restlessly around Baker Street, in more discomfort than she had been for the previous two months. No pain yet, but plenty of pressure, her muscles aching dully and her baby daughter rarely stilling at the feel of Molly's hands running over her belly as she always had before. The only thing that seemed to help were the dulcet tones from Sherlock's violin. It eased the baby and Molly as well. Sherlock had done everything his extensive brain could think of to make her comfortable – constantly adjusting the thermostat to her body's changing needs, hot water bottles, calming teas, baths, massages – until she begged him to stop, the stimulation only frustrating her when none of it worked.

But the violin…oh the violin, it worked wonders finally and Molly eased back into the couch, her legs angled out and her hands rubbing random patterns on the skin under her shirt. Her eyelids had drifted down, but she could still focus on Sherlock in his chair, his eyes locked on her while he played. In minutes, her eyes had closed and she was breathing steadily, feeling sleep close in on her.

She was just drifting off when she felt the first jolt of pain shoot through her pelvis and across her back, her muscles starting to cramp. Her eyes opened wide.

"Sherlock," she said slowly. "I do believe it might be time."

Some six hours later, her body feeling every last bit of the natural birth she had chosen, her doctor lifted up the tiny, squalling form of her daughter. Molly let out a desperately happy cry, tears spilling from her eyes as one hand held tightly to Sherlock's, the other reaching out to gather her child to her breast, the first contact overwhelming her system.

With the standard health checks done, mother and child cleaned up and cared for, the staff left the room and a stunned silence descended on the room. Sherlock sat next to Molly on the hospital bed, his legs pulled up awkwardly in the small space and his hands and arms cradling the precious life that had just been handed over to him. Molly lay tucked into his side, her cheek resting against his arm and staring down into the round, pink face of their sleeping baby. Sherlock had not taken his eyes off of her since she made her loud, healthy debut, looking shocked that the swell inside Molly had indeed turned out to be a real baby.

Molly had to hold back more tears as she watched Sherlock visibly fall in love with their child faster than he'd ever learned to care about anything in his life.

"I didn't know I wanted this," he murmured suddenly.

She smiled, knowing exactly how he felt. Her professional and personal life had rarely been stable, safety-wise, and no matter how many candles showed up on her birthday cake she never quite felt like a grown-up. Not really. Children were not always part of her five year plan.

She slid a hand carefully over the dusting of dark hair on her daughter's head, knowing that her heart had been lost forever to this little life and she wouldn't change a thing about that.

"I'm scared to take my eyes off her," Molly whispered. "Afraid she'll stop breathing if I look away."

For the first time in nearly twenty minutes, Sherlock turned his head and properly looked at her.

"She'll be safe, Molly. I promise you that," he said, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead, speaking to all her fears. "She will always be safe."

Ever so carefully, he transferred the little bundle in a polka dot blanket to her arms, sliding his own around Molly and settling them further into the bed pillows. She hummed contentedly and smiled, completely basking in the emotions of holding her daughter and being held by Sherlock.

"You hear that, Clara Lynn?" she asked, snuggling her closer. "Always safe. Always."

The light dimmed in the room as the muted, cloud covered sun set on the day. In the first moments of twilight, the sound of raindrops pattering against the window started a stunted rhythm, turning to a steady drum in minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

Light pitched babbling drifting into the kitchen alerted Molly to the fact that her daughter had woken from her nap. Ever since she had started to vocalize, Clara woke every morning and from every nap babbling to herself, never crying and always perfectly content until either Sherlock or Molly came to get her. They had converted John's old room to a nursery and Mrs. Hudson had been more than happy to allow renovations so that the only access to the top floor was from 221B. On busy days, though, Molly let Clara take her afternoon naps in their bed. She liked having her daughter nearby when she was doing chores or helping Sherlock with experiment analysis in the kitchen. It took giving him nearly unrestricted access to Bart's, pulling every string she had at the hospital, to get him to taper down the work he did at home, but fortunately his intellect was great enough to understand that infants and biohazards did not mix.

Now nearly three years old, Clara was growing into a curious, bright little person right before their eyes. Molly was still struck by how much she had grown as she stepped into the bedroom to collect her. She had inherited Sherlock's blue eyes and his striking bone structure was visible even underneath the round baby cheeks. Her hair had grown brown and wavy, framing her delicate face with its roseleaf complexion.

Clara was sitting up in the bed, holding her stuffed rabbit in her lap and conversing with it. Her language skills were developing perfectly adequately, but her comprehension was off the charts. Sherlock would frequently quiz her on the names of invertebrates or plant species in a book and she would, without fail, point to the correct picture of the specimen. It was really quite remarkable.

She may have followed in her parents' footsteps when it came to intelligence, but her personality was all her own. She was a complete ham, only encouraged when John Watson visited and found her bubbly antics absolutely hilarious. Particularly when it contrasted with Sherlock's straight laced disposition, providing all kinds of amusement for a family dynamic.

Clara noticed Molly standing in the room and lifted her arms up high, the bunny aloft in one hand, a huge grin on her face.

"Mum!" she cried.

"Hello my darling girl," Molly said, smiling as she leaned over the bed to gather her up in her arms. Clara rested her head on Molly's shoulder and her little fingers gripped at her arms, bunching the sleeves of her blouse. The slight powdery scent of infancy still lingered on her, but was fading fast. It made Molly's heart ache for the briefest of moments. "What do you say to a new nappy and then you can help mum gather the laundry."

Clara responded by patting her arm enthusiastically.

Molly put a fresh pair of pull-ups on her, noting that she'd made it through the nap without soiling the first pair. _Fourth time this week_ , she thought. _Definitely time to start potty training_. She could only imagine how that conversation would go with Sherlock. He was worse than Molly when it came to refusing to believe their daughter was growing up.

"Daddy?" Clara asked when Molly put her on the ground, trailing after her mother as Molly grabbed the laundry basket and began picking up articles of clothing on her way out of the room.

"He's thinking," Molly answered, holding the basket out as Clara grabbed one of Sherlock's shirts with both hands and dumped it inside the whicker. "On the sofa. Do you remember what that means?"

"Princess castle," Clara said, nodding seriously.

Molly bit back a snort of laughter. There had been many attempts to explain the concept of the mind palace to her, but Clara's little mind must have been firmly influenced by the few times she had seen _Cinderella_. She could only imagine that Clara envisioned her father bouncing around a shimmery castle like a character in a Disney movie.

They picked up the last of the discarded clothing and Molly set the basket on the floor next to the front door before grabbing a tin of biscuits off the counter and popping the lid off to give one to Clara.

"Thank you for the help, my girl," she said. "You're a very good cleaner upper."

"Upper upper," Clara repeated, taking the biscuit and immediately shoving it into her mouth to gnaw on.

She stuck next to Molly's leg for several minutes while Molly began to sort a basket of freshly cleaned laundry, folding and stacking on the mercifully clean kitchen table. When she had pushed the last of the biscuit in her mouth, Clara turned her clever eyes on the lounge and took a few steps away. Molly looked on quietly as she folded a tiny pair of pants, watching Clara shuffle across the room towards the sofa, her blue eyes glued on her father. She hardly made a sound as she came to stand directly next to the sofa, less than a foot from Sherlock.

It only took a few seconds before one of his eyes cracked open and he looked at Clara, who squealed and raised her fisted hands under her chin as she smiled.

"'Ductions, Daddy!" she giggled.

Molly smiled. It was their favorite game. Clara called it, or tried to call it, 'Deductions.' She would nick something of Sherlock's, usually his phone, and hide it somewhere in the flat, nearly falling on the floor laughing as Sherlock tried to find it. The deduction portion usually came from him narrowing down the location of the item based on how much Clara was giggling. If she had hidden something today, she must have done it long before her nap.

Sherlock's eye closed again and he resettled his steepled hands beneath his chin.

"Metacarpals," he said simply.

This was the other part of the game. He would only begin searching when Clara had answered a question correctly.

The little girl reached out and grabbed one of his hands, triumphantly patting the back of it right below the knuckles and then releasing it. Sherlock's mouth quirked up and he opened his eyes, sitting up to begin his search. Molly watched him scour the room, Clara's giggling getting louder the closer he got to the bookshelf. She was practically shrieking when he knelt down to inspect the bottom shelf, pulling a large volume from between the other books and flipping the cover open. The book was hollowed out and inside was his access pass for Bart's.

Clara jumped happily and ran to throw her arms around her father's neck.

"How on earth did she find this?" he muttered, slipping the pass into his pocket and lifting Clara up into a piggyback.

Molly shrugged.

"She's good at pinpointing what's important to people," she said.

"Mm," he replied, crossing into the kitchen. "What do you think the chances are of training her to hide Mrs. Hudson's disco records?"

"Sherlock, she loves those," Molly said, elbowing him gently in the ribs.

"She plays them enough to be bordering on obsession. Just trying to help her break the habit," he said, earning an eye roll from Molly. He lifted Clara higher on his back and grabbed her changing bag from the counter. "Taking her to the museum today. Say bye to mummy, Clara, she'll be at work cutting up cadavers when we get back."

Molly shot him a look, but leaned forward to plant a kiss on her daughter's cheek.

"Bye mum," Clara said, patting Molly's cheeks with her chubby hands.

"Goodbye, my darling," Molly said sweetly. She turned to face Sherlock and stood on tiptoe to press a kiss on his lips. "Remember our deal. No mummification techniques until she's at least six. I don't want her getting nightmares."

"I read about it when I was five," he argued.

"You also had Mycroft for an older brother. Far more horrifying," she said with a smile.

Sherlock chuckled and leaned down to give her a lingering kiss, only breaking away when Clara started tugging at the collar of his shirt impatiently. Molly watched the two of them disappear out the door before turning to get ready for her shift at Bart's. The day went by uneventfully and she was happy to escape the paperwork piling up on her desk when the shift ended late in the evening. She took the tube home and climbed the stairs at Baker Street, grateful to be home. She looked in on Clara, standing in the doorway for several minutes to watch her resting peacefully in her tiny bed, hugging her bunny tightly to her side. Quietly descending the stairs, she made her way into the main flat and dropped her bag on the floor, shedding clothes until she was down to her shirt and underwear as she walked towards the bedroom in the dim light. Sherlock was waiting up for her, concentrating on the screen of his phone until she slipped into bed beside him.

"Missing inheritance," he said distractedly. "Brother suspects the sister. Sister suspects the brother. How surprised do you think they'll be when they find out it went to the mother's favorite charity because she couldn't stand either of them?"

"Very, I would guess."

"Almost not worth leaving the flat for," he said with a sigh as he put his phone down on the bedside table. "But they insist on meeting at the law office."

Sherlock turned to look at her and his eyes stilled.

"You're sad, Molly," he stated.

She looked up at him, surprised. The day had felt a bit off, but she chalked it up to feeling out of sorts for no particular reason. Natural ebb and flow of hormones and emotions. But the moment he said it, she realized that she was indeed feeling sad. She'd been trying not to let things get to her, living for the moment with her family, and for the most part it was easily done. Their home life and her professional life was wonderful and she loved what she had. But that didn't stop Sherlock from seeing her worries.

"She's getting so big," she said quietly, glancing away from him.

"I know," he started gently. "I've told you before, age differences are nothing to worry about. Mycroft was seven years old by the time I was born, and we hated each other just like every other normal set of siblings."

Molly laughed lightly at his attempt to cheer her up. It lasted only for a few seconds before she bit her lip, turning her face further into the pillow.

"It's been a year," she whispered. She felt the blankets pull as Sherlock shifted, lacing an arm around her waist and resting his forehead against hers. Taking in a shaky breath, she curled against him, feeling the comfort and warmth of his body. "We've been trying for a year."

"Sometimes it takes a while," he murmured.

"I know," Molly sighed. "Everything has just been so easy with Clara. I didn't think this would be what was hard."

"I understand what you want, Molly. I do," Sherlock said firmly, his fingers running soothingly over her back. "But if you and Clara are all that I have in this life…I will be perfectly happy. You know that, don't you?"

Molly lifted her face to look into his eyes, her hand drifting up to lay against his cheek.

"Of course I do. Oh Sherlock, yes, of course I know that."

Taking in the small, contented smile that graced his face, Molly thanked her lucky stars for the hundredth time and leaned forward to press her lips to his. She loved how soft his mouth was, how gently he kissed her until it became clear that he wanted to do more than kiss. His mouth changed from gentle to sensual, deepening the kiss as he rolled his body over hers. She arched instinctively towards him as his hands travelled up her shirt, releasing the buttons and pushing the fabric open. Slipping an arm under her back, Sherlock pulled her upright, sitting back and placing kisses to her neck and chest while she pulled her shirt off and quickly reached for the hooks of her bra.

Her body came alive where he touched her, lungs working twice as hard to catch her breath when he finally had her free of clothing and reverently caressed her with his hands and lips. She sighed happily when he slipped inside of her, making love to her exactly how she needed and wanted – a slow burn, holding tightly to each other, rocking together until her pleasure peaked and radiated to every cell in her body, taking him with her after only a few seconds.

He held Molly close for a few minutes, letting their breath slow down in tandem, before kissing her softly and pulling away, offering her a hand to pull her out of bed and towards the bathroom to clean up. As he sometimes did after they'd made love, Sherlock headed straight for his microscope, his mind unusually focused and free of distracting thoughts. Molly pulled on one of his t-shirts and grabbed a spare blanket from the linen cupboard, settling herself on the sofa with a perfect view of the man she loved working away on some experiment or another. Never in a million years had she anticipated this strange little arrangement to be the epitome of family life, but it worked. It worked in so many ways. And she loved every bit of it.


	4. Chapter 4

He knew the second time. He knew it before she did, though he could not pinpoint exactly what gave it away. When she walked into their bedroom at the end of the day and stripped out of her clothes, standing before him completely bared, she looked…different. And he just knew.

She didn't believe him at first.

"Sherlock," she said slowly. "I  _just_  had my monthly. There's no way…"

But he had been right. Things would always run so much smoother if she just trusted that he was always right. Or nearly always. He'd been convinced it would be a girl; a darling little sister for five year old Clara. All scans pointed towards a boy.

A son.

He watched Molly's body grow and swell with a second child, watched his precious daughter, who already had him wrapped around her little finger, become enamored with the idea of her new sibling. Molly showed her how to change nappies and swaddle a baby doll. During quiet times, Clara would sit devotedly next to her mother on the sofa and read from her beginning reader science books, making sure her brother was well prepared for the world into which he was entering. Molly would lean back into the sofa and run her fingers through Clara's chestnut curls, closing her eyes happily while she rested and listened to simplified facts of chemistry and physics.

When she was seven months along, Sherlock came home to Baker Street after a disappointingly simple case to find Molly standing by the window, looking onto the street with her brow drawn seriously. Something was wrong. She stood with her belly angled away from the glass, her eyes sweeping the street. If those signs weren't enough to give away a problem, the gun sitting on the desk in front of her screamed trouble.

"What's going on?" he asked carefully.

"Someone's been loitering on the street, three buildings down," she told him, never taking her eyes away from the window.

Sherlock crossed the room and stood by her, his gaze following hers. Sure enough, there was a figure pressed into the shadows of a building on the opposite side of the street, hood pulled over their head and hands shoved deep into trouser pockets.

"How long?" he questioned.

"He was there this morning when I took Clara to school," she said. "It's been four hours now. He hasn't moved."

"Clara?"

"I arranged for Anthea to pick her up," Molly said, absently running a hand over her stomach. "They'll torture Mycroft for a few hours until things are cleared."

Sherlock smiled.

"Who do they suspect?" he said, watching the figure shift on the pavement and look on the direction of 221.

"Henri Bisset," she said, pushing the curtain aside with her finger when the figure moved a few yards out of her sightline. "I shut down an international drug ring his sister was running. Testified against them with some…unfortunate…DNA evidence."

"Unfortunate?" Sherlock asked.

"Let's just say that she and her boyfriend were not exactly practicing safe sex around some of their merchandise," Molly explained with an amused grimace. The amusement dropped a moment later. "Henri was implicated. He got a light sentence compared to the others. They released him last year."

He took in the details, edging himself in front of her body to get a better view of the whole street. Counting quickly, he came up with five visible government officers peppered along Baker Street. Waiting for the right moment.

He reached out and took Molly's hand, squeezing tightly.

"You should have called," he murmured.

"You were occupied," she told him simply. "It was easy to handle, Mycroft took care of things."

"That's not the point," he said, running his thumb over the back of her hand. The figure of Henri Bisset began pacing, looking around. Sherlock's free hand twitched and he reminded himself that the gun was within reach. "You were here by yourself."

"Armed," she reminded him gently. "And with the British government at my beck and call."

It was not enough to reassure him. She had been surrounded by armed agents and snipers not so many years ago and he'd still nearly lost her.

His pulse jumped when he saw Bisset make a decision, striding across the pavement and into the street. In a flash, the agents that had blended into the scenery only moments before rushed forward, forcing him to the ground. He felt the cold, hard steel of the gun in his hand before he even knew he had reached for it.

"Mycroft's people are getting better, there were three I didn't spot," he said, putting the gun down and turning away from the window. He slid an arm around her waist and guided her away, giving her a smile. "Though you could have warned me what I was walking into before I frolicked down the street in front of a criminal."

"I saw no frolicking," Molly replied with smirk. "And I'm sure they were instructed to protect you as well."

It wasn't long after that incident that Molly started standing at the base of the stairs to Clara's room, one hand on her hip and the other poised at her mouth. Sherlock was confident he knew what was going through her mind, but waited patiently for her to broach the subject.

"The room's not big enough for two," she said at first. "Where will we put them when they get bigger?"

"There's time to work that out," Sherlock assured her. "He can sleep in our room for a year at least."

Molly looked unconvinced.

A few days later, she reworked her wording.

"Maybe we should start looking for flats that have more room…just to be familiar with what's out there when the time comes," she ventured delicately.

Sherlock looked up from his reading and saw the growing concern in her eyes. Placing his book on the side table, he stood and walked to her. Taking hold of her hands so that she would stop wringing them, he looked firmly into her eyes.

"Tell me what's wrong, Molly."

"It got too close," she said after a moment's hesitation. "What if I hadn't noticed? What if Clara had been here?"

"But you did and she wasn't," he reasoned, placing a hand alongside her cheek. "You were magnificent."

"How could we do this to them?" she said, panic starting to creep into her voice. "How could we bring them into a world that revolves around criminals and people who want revenge and know where to find us - "

"Molly, Molly," Sherlock stopped her, pulling her into his arms and stroking her hair. "I know it's hard to believe, but our world is hardly more dangerous than anyone else's. Especially when it comes to our children. There are people who are careless parents, who are more of a danger than an enemy could ever be…you and I have both seen that. We protect our children. Mycroft adores Clara. John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson…they have the best in Britain looking out for them."

Molly sniffed and tightened her hold on Sherlock, working around the swell of her belly to be as near to him as she could manage.

"They do, don't they?" she said.

"But…if you still wish to explore our living options," he said, "I think a little more space wouldn't be the worst idea in the world."

It didn't leave him as anxious as he had expected to consider leaving Baker Street, though he had invited John to the flat to discuss it. Sitting in their old chairs, Sherlock realized that the nostalgia for the old days was dimming; dimming in the sense that he knew it shouldn't be attached to a building or a room or a piece of furniture. He could leave Baker Street and he would still have the people that made the years as important as they were.

"It'll be good for you to have a bit more room," John told him encouragingly. "It was crowded when it was just us, you'll be going mad when there's four of you."

"Mm."

"Never thought I'd see the day Sherlock Holmes was a father of two," John said with a grin.

"Yes, well, I never thought I would find a woman who was a government agent posing as a specialist registrar," Sherlock returned, looking up as he heard Clara bounding down the stairs.

"Uncle Johnny!" she cried, bouncing through the room and leaping into John's lap.

John let out a dramatic 'oomph,' but caught the girl easily enough.

"And how are you?" John asked.

"Very well," Clara said politely. "Daddy ordered owl pellets for me. They came yesterday. I found four mouse skulls already!"

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the effort John was making to hide his shock. Clara was equally likely to create a craft with purple glitter and rainbows as she was to dig through the dirt for insects, but he had to admit, he enjoyed it most when his daughter was able to unnerve John.

"Well that's…fun," John said with a smile. "Are you excited to meet your brother in a few months?"

Clara nodded.

"I'm going to play with him when he's big enough," she told him. "He can help me with my essperimints."

"Experiments," Sherlock corrected gently. Clara glanced at him and nodded.

"Eck-sparamints," she tried again.

Sherlock's lip quirked up and he nodded back. Close enough. John smiled at him and settled Clara more comfortably in his lap. His friend blinked a few times, looking at the floor. It piqued Sherlock's interest, knowing there was something on John's mind.

"If you and Molly are looking for more space," John started. "You know, looking near Mary and I would be great. It would be nice to have you all nearby. And…well, being near a playmate…could be good for the kids."

Silence filled the room and Sherlock cocked his head, waiting for John to meet his eyes. When he did, a shy grin spread across his face.

"Mary's expecting," he said.

Clara lit up like a light.

"More babies?" she asked, looking at her father.

"More babies," Sherlock confirmed.

Clara whooped and jumped off John's lap, skipping out of the room.

"Wait til mum hears!" she cried, hurrying out of the flat to find Molly at Mrs. Hudson's.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock bounced his leg in agitation, the hard wood of the bench he was seated on making his arse ache. The last time he’d been seated in a hallway like the one he was currently in, he had been fourteen years old and holding a rag to his bloodied nose, awaiting punishment from the headmaster. The teachers hadn’t bothered sending him to the office after that incident, simply sending him home with a note for his parents to sign and to be added to his record of insolence and rule breaking.

Molly would be the first to point out that he had never let go of the indignities he felt he’d suffered at school. He liked to think he had moved beyond the reaction of being in an academic institution, attending parents’ night for Clara’s class and watching the fall play where she had been Flower #3 and looked like an angel, even if she had complained endlessly that her teacher refused to make the costume botanically accurate. Too smart for her own good at six years old, just like her father.

Which was why they were sitting outside of the head teacher's office.

He risked a glance over at Molly, who was bouncing five-month-old Elliott in her arms.  The boy was the spitting image of his father, with dark curls already adorning his head and bright blue-green eyes peering out at the world with constant curiosity.  At the moment, he was reaching for Molly’s ponytail, his body bobbing up and down as he flexed his leg muscles.

For her part, Molly looked more nervous than upset.  They’d never had any issues with Clara in school and she had been mortified to get the call.

The door to the office opened and the head teacher greeted them, beckoning them inside.  When they were settled in the chairs in front of his desk, Elliott seated in his mother’s lap and facing forward, head teacher Gordon looked at them empathetically.

“You have no idea why you’re here, do you?” he asked.

“No,” Sherlock said tetchily. “But I’m guessing you’re about to tell us.”

Gordon smiled and folded his hands on the desk.

“It’s always easy to spot the parents who are first timers, the ones whose child never causes a ruckus,” he said kindly. “In a way, I like these meetings the best.  Usually means I won’t have to see you again.”

“What did she do?” Sherlock snapped, causing both Molly and Elliott to look at him.

“Sherlock,” she scolded.

“Well,” Gordon started with a bit of an amused smile.  “It seems that Clara was informing the other students in her class that…Santa Claus does not exist.”

Sherlock froze in his seat, his heart beat speeding up.  He blinked, looking towards Molly and seeing her mouth agape, looking at the head teacher with barely contained horror.  And anger.

“She did what?” Molly asked for clarification.

“Some of the children were writing up their Christmas lists and it seems she took it upon herself to educate her classmates on the historical myth of the jolly man with the beard,” Gordon continued, clearly amused now.  “And the pagan origins of the holiday.”

Slowly, Molly’s head turned and her piercing gaze settled on Sherlock.  He looked away quickly, finding a small imperfection in the arm of his chair to rub at with his finger.

“Now, I know that all children find out eventually…some sooner than others.  And I also know that Clara is an exceptional child and not one I worry about,” Gordon told them.  “So. I think we can come to the agreement that a few words will be spoken to her about discretion and sparing people’s feelings and we’ll call it forgotten.  Yes?”

If it hadn’t been for the daggers being sent his way from Molly’s seat, Sherlock would have had a word or two to say to the head teacher about the fruitlessness of lying to children and “sparing feelings.”  But he was genuinely fearful that Molly would hand Elliott to Gordon and pummel him into the ground right there in the office.  Instead, he put on his best make-nice smile and nodded.

“Of course,” he said. “We’ll have a little chat with her today.”

“Excellent!” Gordon beamed. “Well then, I believe we are done. I do hope you have an enjoyable holiday. Mr. Holmes, Doctor Hooper.”

He shook their hands as they stood and Sherlock escorted Molly out of the office.  They walked down the hall towards Clara’s classroom, passing shouting children and teachers as they ended classes for the day.  Sherlock placed a hand at the small of Molly’s back, leaning in close and opening his mouth to speak.

“Not one word,” she ground out, adjusting Elliott in her arms.  “Not a single, bloody word.”

“Dad!  Mum!”

Clara’s distraught little voice greeted them when they reached her classroom.  She bounded towards them, launching herself into Sherlock’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quavering as she buried her head in his shoulder.  “I didn’t mean to make them cry.  I didn’t, really.”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock soothed, patting his daughter’s back as he held her.

“I would go easy on her,” Mrs. Sutherland advised, handing Clara’s bookbag to Sherlock.  “She’s been hard enough on herself about it.”

“Thank you, we will,” Molly said with a smile, running a hand through Clara’s curls.

“And she’s quite the little historical expert,” Mrs. Sutherland smiled.  “It’s nice to see, really.”

Sherlock smiled back grimly, hitching his daughter onto his hip and leading his family out of the room.

By the time they reached their house, Clara’s distress had been reduced but she was still hiccupping and wiping away lingering tears.  Sherlock felt his heart tearing in two at the sight of his child so upset. He could remember many days in such a state when he was young, feeling betrayed by the world. For Clara, it was a first. She’d never seen a lick of trouble or dissatisfaction at school.  Her behavior had been exemplary up until that day.  He’d never expected the rush of empathy and protectiveness that fatherhood would bring and was still somewhat blindsided by the feelings when they surged. Watching his daughter learn such a harsh lesson from the world destroyed him in a way he never saw coming.

Molly led them all into the living room when they arrived home, placing Elliott into his rocker before joining Sherlock and Clara on the sofa.  She looked expectantly at him.

He cleared his throat and met his daughter’s eyes.

“Now, Clara, you’re not in trouble,” he said gently.  “But…well, when I told you all of that about Saint Nicholas and the Christmas holidays, what I should have mentioned is that not every family tells their children the same thing.”

“What do you mean?” Clara asked, her little brow turning down exactly as Molly’s did when she was cross.

“Some families,” he started, gritting his teeth a bit, “like to let their children believe that Santa Claus is real. Well, you’ve seen the movies.”

“But that’s lying,” Clara said solemnly, turning to look up at Molly.  “Lying’s not good.”

“No, it’s not,” Molly agreed. “But sometimes, darling, the good thing to do is to let people enjoy something that makes them happy. That’s just being kind.” She gave Sherlock a look when he huffed at her words.  “Wouldn’t you agree, Sherlock, that sometimes it’s kinder to remain silent?”

“Sometimes,” he said begrudgingly. “You can try that tomorrow at school, can’t you?”

“I’m not going,” Clara said, her bottom lip starting to quiver again.  “They hate me.”

Sherlock swallowed against the rush of memories those words evoked.  Despite her annoyance at him, he felt Molly reach a hand behind Clara and rest it on his arm.

“I’m sure they don’t,” she said. “What if…what if you were to tell them that you’re sorry for making them sad and that your family just does Christmas a little differently.  And wish them a Happy Christmas.  That’s not lying, now, is it? And it’s being kind.”

Clara’s face scrunched as she considered the option.

“Why don’t you go into the playroom and think on it,” Sherlock said, nodding towards the hall.  “We’ll bring you some cocoa and tea in a little while.”

Seeming to accept this offer, Clara scooted off of the sofa and scurried from the room.

Tired of being ignored, Elliott started up a fuss from his rocker.  Sherlock stood up and retrieved him, resting the baby’s head against his shoulder and rubbing his back.  When he looked at Molly, she seemed lost in thought, her gaze concentrated on the path Clara had taken out of the room.

“I should have told her how to handle things at school,” he said apologetically.  “I hadn’t thought…it didn’t occur to me.”

“I know I agreed to telling her how Christmas really works, but Christ, Sherlock, did you need to give her such a superiority complex about it?”

“She didn’t sound superior to me, Molly, she sounded like a little girl who wants to be told the truth. I never believed in Santa Claus when I was a child, I don’t see what the problem is.”

“You were schooled at home until you were ten!” Molly exclaimed, standing up to look at him.  “There was no one to ruin the fun for!”

“My mother didn’t lie to me and I don’t intend to lie to my children either,” he said firmly, holding Elliott closer. “It’s not my fault other parents don’t seem capable of the same.”

Molly sighed, closing her eyes briefly and planting her hands on her hips.

“I know how you feel about it,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.  “We’ve both been lied to and lied more than either of us care for. And I love that you want to be so honest with her about the world.  But…Sherlock, there’s a lot of responsibility that comes with that choice.”

He let her words roll around in his mind, knowing that she had a point but wanting to grasp it properly. So much of him wanted Clara to continue learning and growing as she had been, understanding a great deal beyond her years.  Another part of him knew that she deserved a better childhood than he had experienced, one filled with a little wonder and ease in friendships.  She had the warmth and charm to do better than he had.

He realized he’d been drifting when he looked down and saw Molly directly in front of him, her hands on his arms.

“You’re a good dad, Sherlock,” she told him, leaning up to place a kiss on his mouth and laughing when Elliott reached out to grab at her cheeks.  She nuzzled the baby and settled against Sherlock’s chest as he brought his free arm around her.  “We’re doing fine.”

* * *

Molly balanced two trays of Christmas cookies in her hands and swept into the living room of the Watsons’ home, gingerly stepping around the new set of building blocks Clara had scattered on the carpet.  She smiled down at her daughter, who was busily creating some sort of horse drawn carriage, and set the cookies on the coffee table. 

“Oh, thank you, Molly,” Mary said gratefully from her place on the sofa, pushing against the cushions to be able to sit up and scoot closer to the table; not an easy feat considering her due date was only days away.  John placed a hand on her back, helping her up.  “God, I feel useless.”

“I’ve been there,” Molly sympathized, leaning down to give Elliott a big kiss on his cheek before sitting down next to Sherlock.  “This handsome lad weighed in at eight and a half pounds, I thought I’d never see my feet again.”

“We’d have been happy to have you to our house,” Sherlock chimed in, reaching for his coffee and a sugar cookie slathered in frosting. 

“Don’t think I’d make it out the door, to be honest,” Mary laughed.  “I’d rather host.”

“Looks like Miss Clara is enjoying her new toys,” John said, plating a few cookies and handing them to his wife.

“Yeah,” Clara said with a big grin. “Thank you!  I love them.”

“And what did Santa bring to your house this year?” Mary asked as she bit into a ginger snap.

Molly pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and waited, watching her daughter stop and look over her shoulder at her parents.  Molly raised her eyebrow slightly, allowing the wheels to turn on their own. Clara looked back at Mary, her curls bouncing lightly with the movement.

“Um, a book on Egypt, a new jumper, a doll, and a chemistry set,” she said politely, going back to her building as soon as she’d listed the items.

“You must have been a very good girl this year,” John said amiably.

It wasn’t until later in the evening when they were walking back to their home, Elliott bundled against Sherlock’s chest and Clara riding piggyback on Molly, that the little girl spoke up.

“Mummy,” she began slowly. “Is it okay?”

“Is what okay, my girl?”

“That Uncle Johnny and Aunt Mary don’t know the truth about Santa Claus,” Clara explained.  “I mean, aren’t they a little old?  Should I have told them?”

Sherlock snorted uncontrollably and Molly reached out a hand to smack him, assuring Clara that he wasn’t laughing at her and that she had behaved wonderfully at Christmas dinner. She seemed doubtful, but an extra cookie before bedtime smoothed the ruffled feathers between her and her father easily enough.

Molly took a bit more convincing, but once their children were sound asleep in their beds, Sherlock’s kisses had her warming up to the idea of forgiving him.  It was Christmas, after all.


End file.
